


Fear of Flying

by linaerys



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-04
Updated: 2007-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linaerys/pseuds/linaerys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two times, Nathan has to bring Peter home from Venice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear of Flying

**Author's Note:**

> Does not contain the phrase “zipless fuck.” Maybe next time.

“You're going to miss your birthday,” says Nathan to Peter’s voicemail with a weary sense of familiarity. Too familiar, this: fetching Peter home from Venice again. At least this time Nathan knows where to find him.

He wonders why Peter still gravitates there, even now. Neither one of them is drawn to the bones of history, has much reverence for the things of the past, but Peter likes this decaying city for some reason. Peter made a friend the last time he was there (and when doesn’t he make friends?), a useful friend with a villa on a tiny canal, and that’s where he’ll be.

Last time Nathan flew the old-fashioned way, in Alitalia business class, putting up with the irritating disorganization of the flight crew, and picking at the overcooked pasta they served.

Last time the flight took nine hours.

This time he puts on long underwear, high tech micro-fiber and silk, the kind that mountain climbers use when they climb Everest, over that a wool suit, and over that a garment reminiscent of what his sons wear when there’s a blizzard. He looks ridiculous, but it’s better than frostbite.

It never gets old, breaking the sound barrier, pushing himself to the ragged edge of consciousness from the forces of acceleration, hearing the sonic booms behind him. He’s gotten better at this; the Concorde, that symbol of wealth and elegance now sadly retired, has nothing on him.

Last time he landed at Marco Polo Airport and rented a car to drive north to Padua, or Padova, as Peter insisted on calling it. Nathan’s Italian was rusty, and he had to pantomime Peter’s stupid hair in order to communicate to his landlady who he wanted to find. Now Peter’s hair is gone, and it should make him ugly, but instead it makes him alien, and a bit androgynous, but just as beautiful to Nathan’s eyes.

“Venezia,” said the landlady, once Nathan got his point across.

Nathan nodded. “Venice.”

She nodded back and shrugged, annoyed. “Si, Venezia.”

Peter went to Padua after he dropped out of NYU. The Petrellis had a few contacts there, and Peter got a job with a program to teach English to middle class Italian children.

“I have to tell you something,” Peter said. Nathan’s hand was on his shoulder. They touched too much, Nathan knew. He was the one to start it, but Peter was usually the one to finish it, and very few people could say no to Peter, least of all Nathan.

“I’m dropping out of NYU,” he said. “Don’t look at me like that, Nathan.” He turned away, and Nathan’s eyes followed the line of his profile, the strand of hair hanging over his forehead, tracing them into his memory. “Not everyone has their path laid out like you did.”

At first Nathan was glad to have him gone. He missed Peter, of course, but having Peter around was like standing too close to a fire, or the edge of a cliff. Peter always wanted to fling himself off, and take Nathan with him, and Peter was the only person who could make Nathan want to jump.

They argued so much that there were times when Nathan could hardly stand the sight of him, the sick twisting in his stomach, that powerless grasping for Peter when Peter was always just out of reach. Eventually Nathan stopped standing in Peter’s way, and let him flee. What else could he do?

He didn’t miss the sense of helpless falling whenever he talked to Peter. No matter how much they shared, and how well they understood each other, Nathan couldn’t shake the feeling of talking _past_ Peter whenever they spoke, of his words missing their mark when they were usually as accurate as sniper’s fire. Peter lived in his own world, a bubble of idealism that deflected any attempts to penetrate it.

And that turn of phrase in his mind is not accidental, Nathan thinks as he flies. Maybe that’s why Nathan ends up fucking him every time Peter asks, because if he can’t get inside Peter’s head, he can get inside that way, at least for a moment. He can hurt Peter, of course—every careless word scratches and nicks Peter’s tender skin—but at the center Peter remains untouched.

Mrs. Petrelli had marched into Nathan’s office that time and this and said, “Bring him home, Nathan,” and Nathan didn’t even have to ask who she meant. “Bring my son home.”

It’s selfish, this desire for Peter. Peter was better on his own, flying free, with no family to react to, or against. He sent Nathan an email every week the first time he ran, with stories of his students, which Nathan skimmed for revealing personal details, while ignoring the twee little tales of boys name Paolo and girls named Angela. Nathan has time for his own children (as reported in a _New York Magazine_ article, highlighting the new generation of Petrellis, their expensive nannies, their well-catered birthday parties), but no time for other people’s.

He sent Peter money every month, first checks, which Peter never cashed, and then started depositing small amounts directly into his account. It’s not that Nathan thought Peter needed it, but he liked the idea of something of his in Peter’s hands, his electronic gifts being turned into Euros and spent at sidewalk cafes, or trinkets for Peter’s girlfriends.

Peter used the money that time, taking it out in dribs and drabs, which Nathan always replaced. This time the account is untouched. Nathan wonders if Peter is using his abilities to steal food, or whether he is eating at all. The thought twists Nathan up inside and he flies faster.

Back then, Peter ended every email with, “You’d love it here, Nathan. Come visit me.” Nathan knew he wouldn’t love it, but Peter probably knew that, too. Europe had bad memories for him; he had been caught in the crossfire between provincial clan loyalties there, and seen ugly things, mass graves and horrific deaths. Not that New York didn’t have its own clan feuds, but at least there he understood the old fights and divisions, the family infighting and long-banked grudges. There he was a part of them.

He drove back from Padova to Venezia, following road signs and remembering his Italian. He returned the car and took a water taxi into Venice just as the sun set, and he saw the Doge’s palace from the water, bathed in pink light and the mist of the dying day. Heidi would have liked it, would have squeezed his hand and wanted a kiss. It had a certain Hallmark romance to it, but that day it stood between him and Peter, so it was nothing but an annoyance.

He wanted to surprise Peter, for once, as Peter had so many times surprised him. Peter would appear on the steps of the courthouse when the court went on recess, with no warning, no invitation, but he’d never needed one.

Nathan wheeled his suitcase along cobbled streets, and consulted a map every few minutes, feeling foolish and out of place, like the Midwestern tourists who toddled along New York’s streets, until he arrived at a small sidewalk café next to a tiny alley, barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast.

He peered down the alley. It didn’t have a street sign, but it seemed to be in the right place. Then he heard Peter’s voice from behind him. “Hi, Nathan,” Peter said. “Have a seat.”

Nathan turned and looked behind him and saw Peter sitting in one of the folding metal chairs at the sidewalk café, sipping a glass of red wine. Peter’s body language seemed more confident and in control to Nathan than it had in New York, and that slight whiny note was purged from his voice. Nathan sat down opposite him, noticing, sadly, that Peter hadn’t stood up to hug him, or even seemed happy to see him.

“You’re all grown up, aren’t you,” said Nathan sardonically, and watched Peter shrink, somehow, into himself, a little brother again. Nathan sighed. This was why he hadn’t wanted to come; they could never escape these roles.

“Why are you here, Nathan?” Peter asked.

“You asked me to come,” said Nathan, not even trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice, but it was a little bit of a relief. If Peter wanted to keep his distance, that would make it easier not to become entangled again. Maybe they could start anew.

Peter rolled his eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

“Nice to see you too.” Nathan pulled out his phone. “Can I stay at your palazzo or should I get a hotel?”

Peter made a “well, duh,” face. “It’s not really a palazzo, but there’s plenty of space. You can stay. There’s only one working bathroom, but roughing it might be good for you.”

Nathan rolled his eyes at that but didn’t rise to the bait. Peter showed him to a big room at the top of the villa, which had open windows that caught the breeze. “This will be nice in the summer,” said Peter significantly.

“I’m sure,” said Nathan. He got undressed and took a shower to wake himself up, after a sleepless night on the airplane and a long day of driving.

That evening, they shared dinner and a bottle of wine at a one of the restaurants that lined Venice's secondary canals. Peter became a little friendlier after Nathan tried the baby octopuses that were the Venetian specialty.

“They’re good, right?”

“They’re creepy.” Nathan wiped the olive oil off his fingers. “But not bad.”

“How long are you staying?” asked Peter.

“A few days,” said Nathan.

“And here I thought you’d say ‘As long as it takes.’”

Nathan cocked his head to one side and shrugs. “No, you’re an adult. If you want to stay, you can.” Peter had never responded well to authority, and Nathan didn’t know how to be anything else. Maybe a little coyness would entice Peter to follow, but Nathan had never been good at that either.

Peter smiled as if Nathan was making a joke, then tore off a piece of bread and used it to soak up the rest of the juices from the octopus dish. “Sure,” he said. “I can do whatever I want.”

The beds in the villa were rickety but not uncomfortable. Peter helped Nathan make up one of the them with some threadbare sheets and a wool blanket. “Is this place condemned?” asked Nathan as he walked gingerly over slanted floors and creaking boards.

“No, but the owner doesn’t really have the money to fix it up.” Peter stood at one of the windows that looked down over a canal. Nathan crossed the room to stand next to him. When he inhaled deeply he could smell the famous Venice stench, but it wasn’t that bad, at least now, before the heat of summer, and he could see the romance of this place, the strange beauty of the twisted streets and arched bridges.

The room felt huge, especially after the confining alleys and streets below. Nathan noticed that Peter had filled out in his year here—no taller than he’d been before but now as broad as Nathan as well.

Peter looked so far away that Nathan couldn’t remember how he had ever bridged that gap, the gap of years and personalities so different that he felt some times as if they spoke different languages. Peter hadn’t touched him since he arrived—not those pats on the shoulder, the unthinking caresses they gave each other even before things changed between them. Had they really been so entwined once that Nathan left a bite mark on the pale skin of Peter’s shoulder? That couldn’t have been them. Now Nathan could hardly imagine Peter’s body brushing against him as he walked past.

“I’m not going back with you, Nathan,” said Peter. “I like it here.”

“Are you still going to like it when the money stops?” Nathan knew how blunt and horrible it sounded, and what Peter would think: that if money was the only thing that tied the family together, they would be better off apart.

“Yes,” said Peter. “I don’t need all those little luxuries like you do.” He sounded belligerent, as if he was trying to bait Nathan, but Nathan didn’t react. They had fought enough last year for a lifetime.

“Mom needs you,” Nathan said, hoping that would be enough, that he wouldn’t have to say how much he needed Peter, to be his opposite, to tempt him to that edge. That without Peter to protect, to keep him honest, Nathan couldn’t be sure if he was doing any good at all.

Peter turned, gave Nathan a heartbreaking little half smile, and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Mom,” he said, as if weighing her importance against everything he had here. Then he shrugged. “You look tired, Nathan, go to sleep. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”

Of course it couldn’t be that easy, thought Nathan as he fell asleep. Peter needed to lead him in a chase, and Nathan would let him, just like always.

The mattress was thin, and creaked and sagged on the rusted springs beneath it when Nathan rolled over, but the sheets fluttering in the cool evening air and the sound of the water lapping the sides of the canal lulled him to sleep.

Peter brought up coffee and steamed milk from his sidewalk café the next morning. Nathan met him out on the balcony overlooking the canal. He poured himself a cup of coffee and looked across the way, at the straggling plants hanging out of a window box. They had put out long, questing fronds, searching for the sun.

“Have you ever been to Venice before?” asked Peter. He took a sip of coffee and let the foam from the milk linger on his upper lip for a long moment, while Nathan fought the urge to wipe it off for him.

“No.” Like his Jewish friends in high school took Birthright trips to Israel, Petrellis took trips to Italy, but not Venice. Petrellis went to Puglia, the heel of the boot, and lay on the beach for a week, speaking no more Italian than it took to order a beer.

“Let me show you around,” said Peter.

Nathan frowned, fought the feeling of relaxation creeping over him from the rot-tinged breeze and the taste of delicious coffee on his tongue. “This isn’t a vacation for me, Peter.”

“Of course not, you don’t take vacations.”

“I don’t have time for vacations.” He had driven Heidi crazy on their honeymoon, refusing to sit still for much longer than dinner or drinks on the beach. She wanted to sunbathe and read; he wanted to fly over the volcanoes in a helicopter, hike sweaty miles up to secluded waterfalls and make love in the pools, anything to distract himself from the important events he was surely missing in New York.

“I know a guy who leads the behind-the-scenes tour at the Doge’s palace. He could let us in, and I can show you around. We can walk across the Bridge of Sighs,” said Peter, as if he hadn’t heard.

“What do you care about that stuff?”

“I care,” said Peter. “It’s interesting. You used to like it too.”

Nathan didn’t remember what he might have said to give Peter that impression, but he shrugged. He had taken a few days off—if he couldn’t convince Peter to come home over the weekend, maybe Peter would be better off staying, and at least he could tell Mom that he had tried. Of course, Nathan could cut off Peter’s funding—that might be what she wanted him to do next. They could even pull the strings that got Peter this teaching position again, this time to end it, but Nathan wasn’t ready to do that yet, to throw away Peter’s friendship just to have him back.

“You could study history at NYU,” said Nathan.

“I’m not going back there.”

“Or somewhere else. Your grades weren’t bad.”

Peter rolled his eyes, and he reached across the small table between them to rest his hand on Nathan’s forearm. “Stop it,” he said.

Nathan looked at him and raised his eyebrows. “The Doge’s palace. Is that the big pink building?”

Peter rewarded Nathan with a smile and one of his disbelieving chuckles, the one that said, “How stupid can my brother be?”

“That’s right. The pink building.”

“It looks just like the one in Vegas.”

They walked across the Piazza San Marco as it became clotted with tourists in the midmorning. “This is worse than Times Square,” said Nathan, as they wove their way around stopped pedestrians whose cameras were pointed into the air.

Peter said something in Italian to the agent selling tickets and he took Peter and Nathan in by a side entrance and brought him to a tiny office with a battered metal desk in it. A dark haired man was talking on the phone and gesturing as he did, as if the person on the other end could hear him.

“Ah, Pietro,” he said when he saw Peter. He stood up and clapped Peter on the shoulder, then kissed both his cheeks.

Peter said something to him in Italian, too fast for Nathan to catch; he only heard his own name.

“Natan—brother,” said the man.

Nathan put out his hand, and the man shook it warmly. “I am Remo.”

“Remo is going to show us around,” said Peter.

Nathan looked at Peter skeptically.

“Don’t worry, I’ll translate,” said Peter.

Remo led them up the main stairs to the balcony, weaving them around the other groups of tourists. The stairs were of marble and the walls were covered with murals and moldings. Remo glanced around theatrically at the top of the stairs, then opened a door hidden in the molding and led Peter and Nathan up some much less ornate stairs away from the othe tourists.

“This is where they used to question prisoners,” said Peter. They overlooked a small room laid out like a courtroom. These hidden areas were all unfinished wood paneling and small narrow rooms, but this was, Peter informed him, where the real work of government took place. “Venice was quite advanced. They could only lift a prisoner up with a rope around his wrists to question him. No other torture.”

“Advanced,” said Nathan, nodding. He didn’t know why Peter had wanted to show him this.

They saw Casanova’s hiding place and walked across the Bridge of Sighs, thus called because prisoners on their way to be executed had been walked across it. “I would have done more than sigh,” said Peter.

“Yeah,” agreed Nathan without really thinking about it. Did Peter really expect him to play tourist for a weekend?

“Do you want to have lunch?” asked Nathan, glancing at his watch.

Peter frowned, annoyed. “Nathan, the tour’s not over.”

“Peter, this isn’t really my thing.”

“But you loved Venice. You always wanted to go,” said Peter, sounding petulant, like he was six again.

“If I wanted to go so much, don’t you think I would have gone before? What is all this about?”

They walked down the stairs of the palace, and out through the metal gates, Peter rushing ahead, angry and hurt for no reason Nathan could understand. “You gave me all those books for birthday presents,” said Peter when they stood outside again.

“Oh.” Nathan looked down at his fingernails. They needed a good manicure. “Mom gave you those.”

Peter glared at him accusingly. “She said they were from you. They had _your_ handwriting in them.”

Nathan could only imagine what they said, probably something about going to Venice with Peter some day. Peter had tried to do that for him, and Nathan had fucked it up. “Mom has many talents,” he said.

“Well, I’m sorry I dragged you here then. I won’t waste any more of your time.” He walked away from Nathan, and Nathan wanted to run after him, bring him back, but Peter probably needed to be alone, and anyway, Nathan had brought enough work with him to keep himself busy until Peter calmed down.

Nathan went back to the villa and read depositions in the afternoon sunlight until it dipped behind the buildings, then succumbed to the languid breeze and fell asleep in an easy chair with sagging springs.

He woke up in the dark with Peter’s hand on his shoulder and an ache in his back from sitting so long in this chair. “What time is it?”

“About 9. Have you had dinner?”

Nathan rubbed his eyes. “No. I slept.” He hadn't slept this well since Peter had left.

Peter touched the side of Nathan’s cheek so quickly that by the time Nathan noticed his hand there, it was gone. “I’m an idiot,” said Peter.

“You’re not an idiot,” said Nathan in a tone he knew was more exasperated than convincing. “Mom was trying to help me out, I guess.”

“I’m not going back,” said Peter. “All those lies . . . I’m sorry you wasted a trip.”

“If I’d known Venice was like this, I would have come a long time ago,” said Nathan, a transparent lie, but one he was pretty sure Peter would want to believe.

“Really?” asked Peter.

“Of course.”

***

“I have tickets to the opera in Verona tonight,” said Peter as they shared a pot of coffee the next morning. “We can take the bus up.”

“Opera? You?” Nathan took a sip of the coffee. It really was spectacular. He’d have to find some to take home.

“I was going to take Micaela, but since you’re here.”

“Take your girlfriend, Peter. I should be getting home anyway.” He looked at Peter questioningly.

“She’s not my girlfriend. And you actually like this stuff. You can explain it to me.”

Nathan smiled to himself. “The D.A. likes opera. That’s politics.”

“He also likes fly fishing, and I don’t see you going with him to the Catskills.”

Nathan shrugged. “Which opera?”

“ _Carmen_.”

“You really should take Micaela.”

“What?”

“Micaela is Don Jose’s fiancée. In the opera. Never mind.”

Peter smiled. “See, you do know this stuff.”

Nathan insisted on renting a car and getting a hotel room in Verona for the night. The drive took two hours over highway that Nathan had already seen twice on this trip, but he liked sitting next to Peter, not speaking, just watching the flat green fields go by. He had always thought of Italy as being all beaches and mountains, but there were parts that looked like the Midwest.

They walked through the old areas of Verona in the afternoon, the squares that were closed to cars and lined with cafés. There wasn’t much to do there except the Opera, which was held in an ancient Roman arena that seated thirty thousand people and dominated the city plan so that all the roads had to curve around toward it or dead-end into it.

Peter and Nathan ate an early dinner at Bottega del Vino. The walls were lined with corks and empty bottles of wine so old that the last person to sip them must be dead and buried. They ate hearty pasta and meat dishes, hurrying through the _secondi_ to get to the show. “Don’t eat too much,” said Nathan. “You’ll fall asleep during the opera.”

“How long is it?”

“Probably about four hours. This was your idea, remember?”

Peter smiled affectionately at Nathan. “Come on, you’re having a good time, admit it.”

Nathan smiled and shrugged. “Ask me again during the fourth act.”

Liking things for their own sake rather than their usefulness always seems like a mark of weakness to Nathan. But he did like the opera, and there was something magical about sitting on the hard stone in a theater that was more than two thousand years old. The stage was huge, and the opera took advantage of it: the opening market scene sprawling and noisy, and the chorus of dancing cigarette girls at least a hundred strong.

The spectators held candles that they lit as the sun set, passing the light along from seat to seat, until the whole arena was aglow and more beautiful in the gathering dusk than anything they could have put on the stage.

Nathan would have rather been in the lower seats—the temporary concert seats with plush backs and soft cushions. Down on the arena floor everyone was dressed in black-tie finery and if he’d planned this trip, that’s where they would be, not up here in the nosebleed seats. They rented orange cushions that looked like cheap life preservers, and had indentations in them from a thousand other spectators. Nathan took his gingerly at first, but sitting on stone for the four hours of the opera would have been too uncomfortable, and he became grateful for the cushion as the night went on.

The sound was muddied this far away from the stage, and the constant noise of people shifting to be comfortable on the stone, and talking in low voices surrounded them, but Nathan didn’t mind. This was so far removed from the stifling heat at the Met. Here the cool evening breeze blew over the arena, and moon was bright enough for him to read his program.

Nathan kept up a running commentary for Peter about what was happening during the opera, speaking low into his ear. “Here Micaela is telling Don Jose how his mother is doing back home, and Don Jose is tempted to go back to his village and marry Micaela, but he’s more tempted by Carmen.”

Peter looked at him hard then, as if Nathan might be inventing the plot of the opera to make a point. “Really,” he said flatly.

“Really. He would have been better off if he went home, but he can’t stay away from her.”

The seats around them cleared out as the night went on. It was a long opera, and those without cushions or blankets grew tired and cold, and went back to their hotels, but Peter had had the foresight to bring blankets and Nathan had sneaked in a bottle of wine for them to share.

During act three, when the bandits escaped into the woods and Don Jose started to bemoan the cruel fate that caused him to fall in love with Carmen, Peter leaned over and asked, “You do like this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Nathan, and it felt like he was unburdening himself of a secret. They sat close together, legs touching. It felt wonderful not to have to be careful, here in this sea of strangers, but Nathan scanned the faces around them anyway. The only people left in the upper stands were couples, more engaged with each other than the opera.

“Why? It’s so melodramatic. All the dying for love. All that singing about it.”

He looked down at his hands, feeling foolish. “Mom,” he said, although that wasn’t the only reason.

“Yeah?”

“She used to take me. Before you were born.” He looked back at Peter, who was gazing at him raptly. “Watch the opera, Pete, it’s a lot more interesting.”

“What’s happening now?”

“Don Jose discovers that Carmen has a new love, Escamillo, a bullfighter. She is tired of Don Jose’s jealousy.”

“Let me guess, it ends badly.”

“Of course.”

“Let’s go, then. These seats are really hard.”

“No, there’s still the toreador theme. You came all this way, you should hear it. It’s very famous. The whole opera has been building to this. Carmen’s faithlessness, Don Jose’s jealousy.”

Peter smiled at him, a little bemused. “Fine,” said Peter. “I’m not sitting though.” He shifted away from Nathan, then lay down and put his head in Nathan’s lap. Nathan looked around again, but there was still no one nearby to see or care.

“Don Jose is begging for Carmen to take him back now,” he said. He felt Peter’s head grow heavy on his leg and Peter’s breathing slowed and deepened. “Well, it’s good music to sleep to.”

The moon was full and heavy overhead when the opera ended. He let Peter sleep on his lap as the floor seats emptied, and the people around him left. Finally one of the arena’s security guards came by, and gestured for him to go. He shook Peter’s shoulder gently. “Wake up Pete, the torture is over.”

Peter sat up yawning, eyes barely open. “It’s over?” He sat up and looked around. “I guess so. Sorry I fell asleep. Not a very good date, am I?” Nathan raised his eyebrows. “It’s a joke, Nathan.”

Nathan could only get one room on an opera night—the last room available that he was willing to sleep in anyway. Brothers shared rooms all the time, right? Nathan wondered if he even knew what normal was anymore. At least the room had two beds.

The walked up to the room together, Peter walking far too close. Nathan could feel the curve of Peter’s hip brush against him as they walked down the hall. He put his hand on Nathan’s shoulder as Nathan put the key in the lock and opened the door. “Why did you really come here?” he asked.

Nathan pushed open the door, they walked in, and Peter closed it behind him. “Was it for this?” Peter asked in a whisper. They stood close together, breath mingling, so close that Nathan could have counted Peter’s eyelashes where they lay against his cheek, even in the semi-darkness.

“I swear it wasn’t,” said Nathan, without moving away, leaving an unspoken “but . . .” hanging in the air. They always ended up like this, Peter pushing until he got what he wanted. What they both wanted.

Nathan kept an index of his failings, as if the numbers meant something: five, the number of months pregnant Meredith was when Nathan left her; two, the number of years he and Heidi were married before he cheated on her; seven, the number of cases that he has dodged to keep his father out of trouble, and six, the number of times he had taken advantage of Peter. And what else was it besides advantage, no matter how willing Peter was? Peter had run away.

Now it would be seven. Peter’s fingers traced along Nathan’s chin. “I missed you, Nathan,” he said quietly. Nathan didn’t move, whether because he was still trying to decide how to move down a safer path, or because he wanted to savor every moment, he couldn’t say.

No, Nathan knew which it was, he could admit that to himself, at least here and now. He felt more alive with Peter, like this, than any other time in his life. He did want to go slowly, though, to put aside the remorse and recrimination for a few precious hours, and just feel Peter's body under his hands. He touched Peter like was touching him, on the face, the neck, running his hands over Peter’s shoulders down to the small of his back.

Their faces were close together, still not kissing, the kiss waiting there in the air for them to take it, until Nathan finally crossed that divide. He kissed Peter slow and careful, like it was the first time. It was, in a way. Nathan made every move deliberately this time, not just rushing in, because he couldn’t go any other way.

Peter’s hands were on his face, his neck, running through his hair, and he kissed Nathan back, nipping at his lips, then turning his head so they could kiss deeper, until he was kissing Nathan like he was drowning and Nathan was his only chance for air.

Nathan felt that helplessness again, the unstoppable tide that brought them together, desire overwhelming every other thought. “Please,” said Peter. Peter was worried that Nathan was about to turn back, that he went slow in order to hold himself away from the cliff, but no, Nathan was too far gone for that, he just wanted to enjoy the descent.

“Shhhh,” said Nathan against Peter’s neck. “I’m here.”

Now Peter seemed to understand, and he traced his fingers slowly around the waistband of Nathan’s jeans, un-tucking his shirt so he could run his hands over Nathan’s back, under the fabric. Nathan undid Peter’s shirt one button at a time and slid it off his shoulder so he could taste the skin there. Peter’s skin was smooth and pale and Nathan knew that it bruised easily, but he didn’t want to mark it just yet. That would come later.

Then Peter tugged Nathan’s shirt up over his head, and pressed their bodies together. Peter’s skin was cool and pliant against Nathan’s. He could feel Peter hard against his thigh, and he pulled Peter’s hips against his, grinding them together.

Nathan wanted somehow to feel the wrongness of it, to be disgusted by himself, by Peter, but he couldn’t feel anything but longing and lust. Peter stood there, beautiful and willing, running his hands over Nathan’s back and ass as if all they were was lovers, as if any complications never occurred to him.

Peter backed toward one of the beds, pulling Nathan with him by the waistband. “Come on,” he said, still whispering. “How long are you going to make me wait?”

“As long as I want,” said Nathan with a touch of threat in his voice, just enough to see Peter’s eyes widen. Enough to remind both of them that Nathan still had a little bit of control.

Peter sat down on the bed and Nathan straddled him. Peter kissed Nathan’s stomach and undid his jeans, sucking and biting Nathan’s hip bone as he pushed his jeans and boxers down his legs. He curled his cool hand around Nathan’s cock, and dipped his head down to suck on the tip.

“No,” said Nathan, lifting up Peter’s chin with his fingertips. “Not yet.”

He pushed Peter back on the bed, and Peter got an expectant yet satisfied look his eyes, like he knew what was coming. Not this time you don’t, thought Nathan.

He unbuckled Peter’s belt, and tugged down his jeans, and now Peter was wearing a smug little smile. Nathan smiled back, then bent down and licked a long line down Peter’s cock.

“Wait, you don’t have to—,” said Peter, then choked off with a strangled sound of pleasure. “Oh, God.”

Nathan had never done this before, but it didn’t seem like rocket science—whatever Nathan did that made Peter breathe faster, or make those tantalizing noises in his throat, Nathan did again, harder and faster. He licked around the shaft, tasting the salty skin. He slid the tip of Peter's cock in and out between his lips, enjoying the noises Peter made, the tightening of his thighs under Nathan’s hands. He put one hand on Peter’s hip and felt it rising up to meet him.

Nathan deliberately slowed down his rhythm, then wet one finger and pushed it up into Peter, feeling his cock soften slightly then grow even harder as Nathan matched the rhythm of his finger pushing in and out to the rhythm of his mouth.

“Oh God,” said Peter again, and now he bucked his hips, and came in Nathan’s mouth, and Nathan jumped back, surprised. “I’m sorry,” said Peter breathlessly.

“Don’t be,” said Nathan. He wiped his mouth off with the back of one hand, keeping the other hand still pressing into Peter. He eased out and wet two fingers with the semen still dripping down Peter’s cock, then slid them back in, loving how he could feel Peter’s body adjust around him, how every movement of his fingers made Peter twitch and moan, completely in Nathan's control.

“You want this?” he asked, not because he doubted it, but because he wanted to hear Peter say it.

“Yes,” said Peter, his head still thrown back, his eyes closed. Then he propped himself up on his elbows, opened his eyes and looked intently at Nathan. “Yes,” he said more forcefully.

Nathan spit on his free hand and rubbed some onto himself, then replaced his fingers inside Peter with his cock, pressing in slowly, watching Peter’s mouth as Peter winced then went slack, and opened to let Nathan in. Peter was hard again, with the enviable speed of youth, and Nathan made himself go slow, so he could watch the expressions that slid over Peter’s face. Peter put his hand up to touch Nathan’s cheek. “Please,” he said again, and now Nathan wasn’t sure what he was asking for, just that Nathan wanted to be able to give it to him, whatever it is.

He gripped Peter’s hips, started fucking him harder, and Peter hands curled into fists, grabbing the sheets. He stroked Peter’s cock, still sticky from before, until he could feel the tightness of Peter about to come, and then he finally came himself just after Peter, the contractions of Peter’s orgasm dragging out his own.

He lay on top of Peter for a long moment. Their sweat stuck their chests together, and he could feel Peter’s heart beat quickly against his chest. Nathan pulled out slowly, helped Peter to his feet so they could both shower. They lay in bed after showering, wet hair and exhaustion making them cold, and Nathan still couldn’t stop touching Peter everywhere: his thighs, his stomach, his chest, full of wonder that he finally had Peter with him again.

But the beds really were too narrow for one person, and when Peter fell asleep again, Nathan smoothed his hair from his forehead, pulled the blanket up around Peter, and went to sleep in the other bed.

Nathan awoke when the sun was high in the sky. Peter was already awake and sitting at the window reading an Italian newspaper.

“Peter,” said Nathan.

“Don’t say it, Nathan,” said Peter without looking over at him. His voice was guarded and his eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

Nathan rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Don’t say what?”

“How this can’t happen again, how it was all wrong. Just don’t.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Peter turned and made a face at him. “Yeah, you really would.”

“I won’t this time.” He hated that Peter could do this to him, go four thousand miles away and still pull Nathan after him. Because all he could think when he looked at Peter standing there with his arms crossed in the light of the window, wearing only his boxers, is how much he wanted to pull Peter over here, fuck him harder this time, leave finger prints on his skin to remind him who he belonged to.

Nathan rolled over and put his hand on the bedside table for his watch, but of course it wasn’t there, it was on Peter’s bedside table. He stood up, feeling tightness in his legs and his jaw from the night before, and he smiled slightly. Peter was probably more sore and in different ways

“We should get back to Venice,” said Nathan. “My plane leaves this afternoon.” He glanced at Peter, whose face was turned studiously back to his paper.

“Sure,” said Peter, without looking up, and Nathan wanted to bridge that gap again. He made his hand into a fist at his side so he wouldn’t cross the room to Peter, kiss his forehead where his brows drew together, then kiss him everywhere else. What would it take to get rid of this? If they fucked every single day, fell asleep next to each other, if Nathan never had to think before reaching out to caress Peter, then would he be able to purge himself of this? Or would the obsession take over his life even more? He didn’t dare find out.

They drove back to Venice without talking much, beyond Peter’s instructions for navigating. “Can I show you Padova?” asked Peter as they passed by. “There are some beautiful churches.”

“I have to get home,” said Nathan tightly.

He returned the car at a rental place just outside old Venice, then they took a _vaporetto_ back into the city. He followed Peter through the winding streets back to the villa, then packed up his clothes.

Peter came into the room just as Nathan was finishing up his packing. “Thanks for showing me around,” said Nathan.

“Ask me again,” said Peter.

“Ask you what?” asked Nathan, keeping his voice perfectly neutral.

Peter looked at him intently, the kind of look that Nathan usually dodged when there were other people around. It was too much, too demanding, and Nathan knew how he looked back, not as much naked need, but as much longing.

“You’re so careful, Nathan,” said Peter, balling his hands into fists. “Nothing gets through, does it? What does it take, huh?”

“You,” said Nathan, shaping the word carefully. It hung in the air between them.

Peter just blinked at him for a moment, then smiled and tucked his hair behind his ear. “Wow, Nathan, I . . .”

“You’re better off here, Peter, I can see that. But the rest of us aren’t.” True and false. They might all be better apart, but Nathan couldn’t say that, not when Peter was making this offer.

“You’re not why I left, Nathan,” said Peter. “It’s just . . . all of it. I wanted to see what it would be like just to be me, you know?”

“And?”

“I liked it. But this isn’t what I’m meant to be doing. I’ll come home.”

Nathan took a deep breath. “If that’s what you want to do,” he said.

“I do.”

“What about your stuff?” Nathan asked.

Peter looked down at the floor. “I packed the first day you were here.”

Nathan bought Peter the seat next to him in business class on the way home. Peter picked at his overcooked pasta and curled up in the big leather seat to sleep the flight away. Nathan asked the flight attendant for another blanket and arranged it over Peter to keep him warm.

***

Nathan had been sure, the first time, that he could bring Peter home. He’d been sure about a lot more things then, and back then Peter always did what Nathan asked him to, although not without a price. Whatever tether bound them together, it pulled both ways then.

This time he isn’t so sure.

He lands on the rooftop of Peter’s villa, hard enough to shake up some tiles. He wonders if Peter will hear him, or if Peter is lost in some cocoon of pain and fear, too deep within himself to notice. He's been mourning for Simone, and the loss of his own innocence since the election, and even before he left, Nathan had never seen him so far away.

Nathan looks around on the ground, but this villa isn’t in a heavily touristed area, so he floats down to the balcony where he and Peter sat those five years ago. The window is open and he walks in.

“Peter,” he calls out. “I know you’re in here.” He hears a creaking behind him and turns quickly, but nothing is there. “Of course, you know I’m here,” he says under his breath. “You probably knew I was coming before I did.”

“Did Mom send you this time, too?” asks Peter’s voice, coming from nowhere Nathan can see.

Nathan holds up his hand, as if to gentle a nervous horse. “Shhhh,” he says. “Mom didn’t send me. You don’t have to be invisible, Peter. No one is going to hurt you.”

“You don’t know what it’s like, Nathan,” says Peter’s voice, and now it’s coming from behind Nathan.

“I don’t,” says Nathan, turning. “I have no idea. Unless you tell me.”

“You lied to me about so many things, Nathan.”

“I had to protect you.”

“No one can protect me now.”

“It’s over, Peter, you won. New York is still standing.”

“That was once,” says Peter. He wavers into visibility in front of Nathan, a pale ghost of himself.

“You look . . . worn,” says Nathan. Peter looks more than worn; he looks close to falling apart, even without the changes wrought by his hair, his scar. His eyes are haunted and hollow, open too wide, seeing too much.

“I didn't explode once,” he says. “But I have to do it again every day. Every day is another fight. You don’t know what that’s like.”

Nathan frowns. “And you came here.”

Peter wipes at his face, as if brushing off cobwebs, although there’s nothing there. This is the first time Nathan has actually believed that Peter needs professional help, but he suppresses that thought, in case Peter decides to read his mind.

“I was happy here.” He looks at Nathan and Nathan thinks he knows what that means. Happy here until Nathan took Peter back. “I thought it would help.”

“And does it?”

“No.” Peter wavers into invisibility again.

“These abilities aren’t a curse, Peter,” says Nathan, and he’s not sure where it’s coming from. He still half-believes his are.

“You don’t believe that,” says Peter.

Nathan spreads his hands wide, to show he’s not hiding anything. “I didn’t used to believe that. But I flew here Peter. I flew. Just me. And a lot of long underwear.”

Nathan hears a ripple of air at that might be a laugh and he smiles, trying to keep all of his own fear out of his eyes, out of his voice. He doesn’t want to lie to Peter this time, no playing coy, no opera, nothing but this: they need to be together. They are stronger together. Together they can save the world again.

“I flew, Peter,” he says, putting all the wonder he ever feels at that sensation into his voice. “I flew, and you can too. Come fly with me.”


End file.
